


The Color of Warm Honey

by SpicyTomatoSauce



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Ancient Greece, Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, I cried writing this, Immortality, Jk there is beta, Love, M/M, No beta we die like Romeo, Pain, Sad, Specs hears voices, This will hurt, World War II, kinda unhappy ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-13 11:20:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29277600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpicyTomatoSauce/pseuds/SpicyTomatoSauce
Summary: The first time Specs finds Romeo is in Greece, 400 BC.The second time is in the 8th century.The third time is in 1898.The fourth time is in 1942.The fifth time is in 2021.-Specs is immortal. Romeo isn't. And no matter how many times Specs watches Romeo die, he knows he'll come back eventually and he's going to find him every time he does. No matter what.
Relationships: Romeo/Specs (Newsies)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 9





	1. What He Wants To Remember

**Author's Note:**

> Yes another Spromeo one because yknow what, you don't control my life. This one is pretty angsty and sad but I promise it has a happy ending.
> 
> Enjoy!

The first time Specs finds Romeo is in Greece, 400 B.C. The two never seem to leave each other’s side. Specs turns to look at Romeo and he’s always there, soft olive skin and raven black hair and eyes the color of warm honey.

When Specs looks back on those days, he remembers very little. Warm sun, fleeting kisses, cool marble floors, clear blue ocean, stars scattered across a navy blue canvas of a sky, those warm honey eyes that held the world. 

The first kiss under an olive tree. They were walking along the cliff near Specs’ villa, not talking, but they didn’t have to. The large expanse of Mediterannean Sea to their left and a large field of grass and flowers to their right. 

Romeo suddenly turns to Specs and grins. “Bet you can’t beat me back to the city!” he says before he takes off running, away from the cliff, away from the ocean, away from Specs, and towards the small cluster of villas and shops in the distance.

Specs laughs and sprints after Romeo, following the boy through the labyrinth of tall grass and bright flowers. He catches up to Romeo in no time and grabs him. The motion sends both boys tumbling to the ground, narrowly missing the trunk of an olive tree.

Romeo lands on top of Specs, giggling and smiling. “Idiot,” he manages to say between laughs. Specs could listen to that laugh forever.

Romeo opens his eyes and Specs gets another look at those eyes. Only for a moment though, because then Romeo is leaning down, catching Specs’ lips with his own soft ones, and Specs is tangling his hands in Romeo’s hair, pulling him ever closer. 

The wind rustling the leaves of the tree and the distant sound of waves crashing against the rocks of the cliff become background noise to the two boys.

That’s what he wants to remember.

On the dark days, the other memories shove their way into his head. Soft goodbyes, fear pounding in his chest in time with heart, the flash of a silver blade as it caught the sun, the splatter of the red blood, the scream. The confusion of the others when they found Specs standing in the center of the carnage, every enemy slain and himself entirely uninjured, kneeling over a boy’s body and sobbing.

Deep down, he had known there wasn't a way this could end happily. Romeo aged. Specs didn't. Romeo would die. Specs wouldn't.

But still. One could hope.


	2. The Smell of Ink and Candlewax

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He finds Romeo again in the 8th century...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahaha, pain. lots of pain. I don't know why I do this to myself. Anyways, enjoy!

He finds Romeo again in the 8th century.

Specs is a scribe’s apprentice, never a real scribe. He’s too young, they say. Too young. It makes him laugh.

If only they knew.

It’s late in the castle, and practically everyone is asleep except for Specs, who stays awake in the castle library, writing a report about some farmer’s harvest or another. He’s tired.

When Romeo enters the library, looking the same as he always did, Specs thinks he’s hallucinating. He sits up, sets down his quill, and rubs his eyes. When they open again, Romeo is still standing there, searching for a book on one of the shelves.

Specs can’t help himself standing up, blurting out the boy’s name. “Romeo?”

The boy snaps his head up at the call and smiles. “Oh. Hello. So sorry to disturb you. I was hoping to find a book. If it’s too late, I can just go, I--”

“No, no, it’s alright,” Specs assured him quickly, before he lost him again. “I just…didn’t expect anyone.” He can’t breathe. “My name is Spencer, if you need anything.” He can’t think.

He sits back down, tries to return to his work, but the images keep flashing through his head, the good and the bad. Ocean waves, soft hair, gasping breaths, final words… It’s all too much.

One memory, more clear than the others, surfaces in his mind and Specs is thrown back hundreds of years.

*The two sit by that same cliff, staring at the sea, at that crystal blue sea. They don’t speak. They don’t have to. They just sit and enjoy each other’s company for what little time they have left. They’ve been called to war, the both of them. Specs is scared. Romeo isn’t.

‘We’ll both be alright. I mean, I know you will. It’s almost as if you can’t get injured at all! You remember the time you fell from here onto the rocks?’

Specs did remember. He may not have had any injuries, but it still hurt like Tartarus itself. 

‘You came out unscathed! It should have killed you!’ Romeo continued. Specs shrugged.

‘Guess I’m just lucky.’ He wasn’t. He didn’t know who had cursed him to be like this, forever alone, but when he got his chance, he’d kill them.

Romeo laughed. ‘Yeah, well, keep that luck up. You have enough for both of us. You’ll keep me safe.’ And he looked up at Specs with those gorgeous golden-brown eyes and Specs knew that he’d do whatever he could to keep Romeo safe.

He placed his hand under Romeo’s chin, tilting the other boy’s head up at him, and said the damning words: ‘Yeah. I will.’ Romeo reached up at the same time Specs leaned down and out of all their kisses, this was the one that pained Specs the most to remember.

It was an unspoken promise. It was him confirming, proving to himself that he would do anything for this boy.

He had failed. He hadn’t been fast enough. He didn’t even get to say goodbye or tell Romeo he was sorry for breaking his promise.*

“Are you alright?” Romeo’s voice breaks through the flashback and Specs blinks several times to clear his head of the memories.

“Fine,” he answers curtly. He can’t bear to look at Romeo. There are so many things he wants to say. But Romeo is looking at him with kind eyes and Specs can’t force himself to look away from them.

The color of warm honey.

This time, Specs remembers even less than Greece. He remembers they became fast friends, never one without the other.

It hurts to have that again. 

He remembers tattered books, the smell of candle wax and ink, secret adventures at midnight. Nights spent late at the library, where Specs worked, and Romeo would simply sit there and read and keep him company.

Nights spent late in the barn, when Romeo had to stay and tend to the horses and Specs would sit and talk quietly with him until they both inevitably ended up falling asleep together in the hay.

He remembers that one night in the library.

He had been working quietly. Romeo was off somewhere and Specs had the place to himself. He sighed, watching as his candle burned out, now just a puddle of wax in the dish. He retrieved another one, lit it, and continued working.

He hated these nights. He missed Romeo’s familiar presence. He’d forgotten what it was like to have the boy at his side, smiling and laughing his way through the day. When he wasn’t there, the memories came back, slamming into Specs like arrows.

He sighs and sits back down, picking up his quill. His hand is spattered with ink, it coats his fingers, and it almost sends him into another flashback, where instead of ink covering his dark skin, it was blood, red blood, not his own, but Romeo’s--

The library door opens and Romeo comes bounding in. The sight of him stops Specs’ flashback in its tracks and an easy smile slips onto his face. 

“Evening, Romeo,” he greets, forgetting his work. “What’s got you so excited?”

Romeo is beaming as he walks to Specs’ small, cluttered desk. “I’ve figured it out.” Specs knows how good it must feel for Romeo to say that. He’d been saying for a long time now that there was something bugging him, but he didn’t know what. He couldn’t figure it out.

Specs secretly hoped that he’d somehow regained his memories from the past.

He answers, “Yeah? What is it?” He looks down and begins gathering his papers, expecting Romeo to tell him. When the other boy stays silent, Specs looks back up, brow furrowed in confusion. “Well?”

Romeo places his hands on the desk and leans over it, kissing Specs gently. It’s as he remembers, soft and sweet and like a dream. His hands cup Romeo’s face and he’s not breathing, but that’s okay because Romeo is kissing him again.

They finally break that kiss and Romeo’s eyes are shining. “That. That was it. I’m in love with you, Spencer.”

Specs’ chest aches to say it back but he could lose Romeo again and he doesn’t want that. He can’t fall again. His mouth opens and as much as he doesn’t want to say it, as much as he doesn’t want this to end, he finds himself saying, “I love you too.”

Romeo grins and Specs can’t help but return the smile. “I’m glad I figured it out,” Romeo whispers. Specs doesn’t know how to respond.

“You have ink on your face.” He reaches up and wipes Romeo’s cheek with his sleeve, but only succeeds in spreading the ink more. “…shit.”

Romeo starts giggling and kisses Specs again and everything else fades away and it’s not quite the same as it was in Greece--no waves, no wind, no olive tree, no smell of sea salt and the ocean--but it feels the same and that’s all Specs really cares about. 

Specs thinks that perhaps he’ll get a happy ending with Romeo this time, but then Romeo gets sick. Everyone does eventually. Specs sits with him in the barn, where they both have to stay for fear of infecting anybody else.

Specs begs with Romeo to stay with him, to not leave him alone again. He knows others have recovered and gotten better and he believes Romeo can too.

He falls asleep as he always does these days, with the smell of hay and ink, Romeo curled up in his arms, the sound of his soft breathing and the horses in their stalls luring him into a soft sleep.

He wakes up to silence.

He can’t afford to bury Romeo. No one can afford to bury anyone anymore and the smell of burning bodies is terrible. He quits his apprenticeship and lives in seclusion, hardly leaving his home. He thinks he’ll never get over the fact that he lost Romeo not once, but twice now.

He hears all the news of famines and war, of peace and plentiful harvests. Kings rise and fall, more plagues ravage the land. A man discovers a new country, across the world, and Specs hears all of it from his small, run-down cottage at the edge of the village.

He fights in those wars, sometimes. He watches men die and knows he can’t do the same. 

He hates it.


	3. A Sweltering Summer Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The third time Specs finds Romeo is in 1898

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi I'm back!!!! I missed you!! Enjoy this one!
> 
> TW: panic attack, brief mentions of suicide (it's subtle but it's there)
> 
> Stay safe loves <3

The third time he finds Romeo, it’s 1898.

Well, not really. See, Specs was almost positive that in the hundreds of years between the last time he met Romeo and this one, he had seen him again, but always too young or too old for him to recognize.

He had avoided going to America until the mid-1700s. He had enjoyed a secluded life in what was now Britain, but when he heard what they were doing to the poor people in America--taxing them until they starved--he gathered his things, hopped on a ship, and arrived in New York. 

America wasn’t much better. He still watched people die and he couldn’t do any more than he already was. He never owned a coat, he always gave them away. He hardly ate or slept and no matter what he tried, he couldn’t keep people alive.

He fought in the wars. What was it with war? Why did humans hate each other so much? He was willing to bet that if any of the generals lived half as long as he had, they’d see how pointless war was and they’d stop.

He was glad, though, for the revolution. The taxes were gone, people could afford food again, and he didn’t have to watch as many people die.

Small prices.

He fights in that Civil War too. He was lucky he didn’t ever have to go through what others did. He was always lucky.

That other boy wasn’t so lucky. His name was Chip Douglas. He was kind and funny. He was Specs’ first friend in a long time.

He was dead.

They always were. That’s why Specs distanced himself from everyone. They would all die. He wouldn’t.

Specs went wherever he felt he would look like he belonged. A kid who never aged, who always looked 19, who never got sick or cold or hungry. He was called a lot of things.

Taboo. Witch. Unnatural. Miraculous. Angel. The Second Coming of Christ Himself. 

He fell into the shadows of life, just trying to make it by.

He got glasses in hopes it would help in some sort of disguise. Wear the glasses for one lifetime, take them off for the next. He didn’t know if it would help. He didn’t care. For now, he just needed somewhere to stay.

That’s how he found himself in the Lower Manhattan Newsboy Lodging House. He tried to distance himself there too but they were living in such close proximity, working together, that he had to talk to people.

Albert was the first to really try to talk to him, when he first showed up at the house.

“What’s your name, kid?” he had asked.

“Spencer,” Specs answered shortly, making it clear that he didn’t want to continue the conversation. The less he got to know these kids, the better. He couldn’t afford the luxury of friends.

That mindset was put to a screeching halt when he stepped inside and was met with a shorter boy. Olive skin, raven black hair, and those god-forsaken eyes.

He can’t think. Memories flash through his head and Specs can feel a flashback tugging at the edge of his mind, threatening to pull him under. Albert pulls him from it by clapping a hand on his shoulder and facing the small crowd of kids.

“Boys! This is Spencer,” he called. Everyone turns and choruses a simple hello. Romeo smiles brightly and Specs’ heart aches.

He’s introduced to each boy one by one and the names crowd in his head, fighting for a spot in his memories.

He gets to Romeo and he pauses. Specs thinks he sees a flash of recognition in the other boy’s eyes. And then it’s gone and it’s just Romeo again, the Romeo who doesn’t know him, who doesn’t remember. “I’m Romeo!” he greets, shaking Specs’ hand, and Specs wants to answer with ‘I know’ but he doesn’t.

Specs tries to distance himself this time, he really does, but Romeo and the rest of the boys are determined to get Specs to talk to him and Specs finds himself growing close despite his efforts to not.

They gave him the nickname that he still keeps today. It’s Race who names him and Specs likes it. It’s a new name, a new identity, a new life.

He laughs with Buttons and Elmer, has playful fights with Jack and Albert, shares quiet secrets with Crutchie, has his fair share of challenges with Spot, beats Race in poker over and over. He fears losing them every day but he still grows closer.

He remembers quite a few things from this one. This is probably the one he remembers most vividly. A hot sun like in Greece, but it didn’t offer the same comforting warmth it used to. This was a sweltering, unforgiving sun that burned when he stepped outside.

A harsh, cold winter that left your hands numb and shaking and your lips blue. The smell of old newspapers, stiff muscles, sore throats from shouting, rain and sun and snow, early mornings spent bickering or play fighting, late nights spent playing cards with Race or talking softly with Romeo.

He remembers one night when he has a flashback.

He isn’t sure what triggers it. They’re sitting in the main room of the lodging house, separate but together. Specs is watching Romeo kick Race’s ass in poker and the other boys are spread out. Buttons and Elmer have made up some game from folding a leftover newspaper, Jack and Crutchie seem to be on the roof, Albert sits with Jojo and lets the boy show him how to read the headlines at the top of the pages.

Specs smiles, enjoying the moment, when a joyous shout from Romeo and a groan from Race snap him out of that trance. Romeo is collecting his winnings, which granted aren’t much, but the look on his face, that teasing smile, his golden eyes sparking with a concerning look of mischief, and Specs feels the memories begin to drag him down.

Usually he politely excuses himself from the room and sits outside while he waits for the memories to stop.

This time, however, he hasn’t got the patience for politeness. He stands quickly and leaves the lodging house, almost slamming the door behind him.

He collapses against the wall, letting the memories hit him. Memories of warm nights in libraries, cold nights in trenches, watching people die over and over and over again. A boy cursed to live forever and a boy doomed to die young.

It hurts him, it hurts and he can’t think, he can’t breathe, he can’t move, he can’t do anything except sit and let it all flood over until he’s drowning. His head hits the wall behind him and he sobs.

Someone is asking him a question, they’re trying to say something, but he doesn’t know if that’s in real time or if it’s in his head.

Specs opens his mouth to answer, but all that comes out is a pitiful choking sound. He can't speak. He can't breathe. He needs help. 

Someone is still at his side, speaking calmly. He shoves them away. He can't deal with this now. He’s in war, he’s in a barn, he’s beneath the olive tree.

Who’s hand is on his arm? He tries to push them off, but his hands only just barely twitch. His breath comes in short gasps. The sound of screams and gunshots echo in his mind, the noises playing chase in his ears and head, torturing him.

“Specs!” A shout forces its way into his mind, being added to the cacophony of sounds already in Specs’ head. The hand is on his knee now and they're talking.

He can't decipher what they're saying or really who they are. He can see them but he also can't. They're still talking to him.

He glances at his hands. They're shaking uncontrollably and he bites his lip, clasping them together tightly. They still tremble.

Is someone still talking to him? He isn't quite sure. He wants…

He isn’t sure what he wants. He lets out another pitiful sob. He tries to focus on the person speaking and he recognizes the voice. It’s the one he wants to hear the most. It’s the one he doesn’t want to hear again.

“Specs, hey.” Romeo whispers. “Hey, it's okay, just breathe. Look at me. Breathe.”

“Ro--” Specs gasps, shaking his head. “No, no, I can't-”

“It's okay.” It’s not okay. “Just take a deep breath.” He can’t. “With me, okay? Ready?”

Specs looks up, looks at those eyes, and finds himself nodding. Romeo takes a deep breath and watches as Specs struggles to do the same.

“There you go,” he whispers. “Again.” He and Specs sit there outside for who knows how long, Romeo’s hands on Specs’ arms, waiting until the boy is breathing properly to speak again. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

Specs shakes his head. He can’t even begin to explain what happened. He instead unclenches his hands and lets Romeo take them.

“I’ll admit…” Romeo said quietly, rubbing Specs’ hands gently. “I have no idea what’s going on with you right now. But I’m right here if you need me. I promise that.” He offers Specs a smile and Specs finds himself returning it.

After that night, they seem to grow closer than ever before. They never leave each other’s side, not when selling, not when they’re at home (it’s weird for Specs to think of the lodging house as home, but that’s what it is). Everyone seems to notice it and one day, as they’re getting ready for the first snow of the year, Jack claps a hand on his shoulder and says, “Good to see you making friends.”

It’s a sweltering summer day when they meet David and his brother. It’s a sweltering summer day when they find out about the price raise. It’s a sweltering summer day when Jack decides they’re going to finally say something about it. It’s a sweltering summer day when Crutchie is taken. It’s a sweltering summer day when Brooklyn arrives, and when Jack betrays them, and when they finally *finally* win.

It’s a sweltering summer day when Romeo kisses Specs.

Jack stands atop the balcony of The World Newspaper and announces that they’ve won their strike. Pulitzer looks less than pleased with whatever agreement they came to, but Jack and David are beaming and Medda looks like she might burst from pride.

Specs cheers with the rest when their victory is announced, hardly noticing his hand grabbing Romeo’s out of instinct. He does notice when Romeo pulls him into a tight hug, but he doesn’t mind that either.

He returns the hug, burying his face in Romeo’s hair and repeating, “You did it, we did it, we won.”

Later, walking home that afternoon (there’s that word again, Specs thinks, home), Romeo is talking animatedly, his hands flying as he gestured wildly. Specs watches with an amused smile. Nearly 3000 years and Romeo still talks with his hands. He finds it adorable. At one point, Romeo says something about them being in the paper and Specs can’t help but chime in.

“Out of all of us on that page, I think you were the most gorgeous.” It was meant to be a playful, silly joke. It isn’t meant to mean anything. Not to Romeo.

And yet, Specs sees the way the boy looks at him when he says that. He notices the way his head snaps up to look at Specs, the look of hopeful longing, the slow realization that Specs means it.

Romeo grins, his eyes lighting up again, those eyes the color of autumn leaves and sunlight on glass and warm honey and Specs only gets a glimpse of them before Romeo is pulling him down and kissing him.

They return to the lodging house as it begins to get dark, laughing softly, hand in hand. Specs could almost forget everything that was wrong with the world.

Almost.

He’s happy for those few months. He loses himself in Romeo. He knows better. It was as he’d said before: a boy cursed to live forever. A boy doomed to die young.

But still. He can’t help it. Romeo makes it easy to forget. Specs’ brain fails anytime Romeo grabs his hand or kisses him on the cheek. He always forgets how incredible the boy is until he finds himself falling in love all over again.

No matter how long he lived, he was still a naïve 19 year old boy. He was just a heartsick kid.

It’s a gang fight that takes Romeo this time. Specs hold his hand as he dies from the wounds. The headline the next day reads:

‘BOY FOUND DEAD ON 5TH STREET; SUSPECTED GANG ACTIVITY’

Specs doesn’t sell that day and he leaves the lodging house by the end of the week.

He isn’t sure where he’s going to go. He doesn’t care. He skips around states, finding work wherever he can.

In 1917, he enlists in the Great War.

He knows he doesn’t have to. He’s fought more than his fair share of wars. He doesn’t have to.

Yes you do, his guilt tells him. You’re a strong young man. You can handle it. Plus-

You.

Can’t.

Die.

Specs tells his guilt to shut up. He knows he can’t die. He’s over 3000 years old. He’s taken a countless number of bullets. He knows falling from heights will do nothing but waste his time from climbing them.

He’s tried.

He can easily fight this war.

It’s a sweltering summer day when Specs climbs on the bus, looking like a fresh baby-faced young man.

It’s a sweltering summer day when Specs signs himself up for the worst trauma he’ll ever face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. I will be writing a one shot of Ro's death because well I want to. Anyways, stick around for more pain!


	4. Cursed to Live, Doomed to Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fourth time Specs finds Romeo, it's 1942.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again!! Good to see you! This one is gonna hurt!
> 
> TW: Violence, brief suicidal thoughts, mentions of alcohol
> 
> Stay safe loves <3

The fourth time Specs finds Romeo, it’s 1942.

The whole first half of the twentieth century is the worst he’s ever dealt with. It starts with the first Great War.

“The war to end all wars,” someone mutters to him on the way to the trenches. He’s older, maybe early thirties, and he looks at Specs like he pities him.

‘Poor boy,’ he must be thinking. ‘He’ll die before he’s lived.’ 

Specs almost laughs. Instead, he fixes the man with a calm, unwavering stare. The man shifts uncomfortably. That look is filled with too much pain for a 19 year old.

It isn’t natural.

And Specs agrees.

The Great War is the first one to really set Specs on edge. Since Greece, he’s always been a little jumpy at loud noises or particularly sensitive to sudden flashes of light but this.

This is unlike anything he's ever seen.

Specs lives with the sound of constant gunfire, to the point where he grows numb to the sound. He listens to the screams of dying men. He sits in muck and squalor and knows that he will live with memories of this pain for the rest of time.

When the war ends, Specs returns to New York. By glimpsing at the lodging house and only recognizing three faces; Crutchie, leaning heavily on his namesake, Kid Blink sitting on the ground organizing papers, and Les staring at the both of them, Specs gets all the information he needs.

He knows the others aren’t coming back.

And then from there, the Great Depression. It’s worse than the taxes when he first came to America. It’s so so much worse. He does what he can. He hardly eats the whole time. What little food he comes across, he gives to his neighbors. 

He has to take some for himself. He may not die without it, but his body will still shut down. There’s only so long he can go without sustenance. He still feels guilty.

He looks at the lodging house. He doesn’t recognize anyone. The new faces are skinny and sickly. The kids are starving. No one has any money to give to them.

He leaves a small package of food outside one night. It’s not much but he feels obligated to help them.

The Depression passes, slowly but surely, and the world goes back into its old familiar rhythm of people being people and living their lives.

There’s a second Great War.

Why? He’s not sure. There’s always fighting these days. His guilt eats at him.

Sometimes his guilt feels like a separate person. Constantly whispering in his ear, telling him exactly what he doesn’t want to hear.

‘You could have gotten there sooner. You could have saved him.’

‘Why are you eating? You won’t die if you don’t. Those kids next door will. Give them your food.’

‘You can fight in that war. You’ve been in the trenches before. This time won’t be much different.’

Specs half-wants to join this war in hopes that maybe maybe a stray bullet will hit the right spot and he’ll finally finally die.

It’s a stupid hope. He joins anyway.

He sits in a tent at camp. He recognizes a face nearby. His friend from the Civil War, Chip Douglas. It’s been 80 years since Specs watched him get slaughtered and now he’s going to have to do it again. Specs doesn’t talk to him.

It gets even worse as time drags on. One day he sits at camp and two new--or old--faces approach.

“Albert DaSilva, at your service.” The redhead sticks out his hand. Specs forces himself to shake Albert’s hand.

“Call me Specs,” he mutters in response. Albert grins. Specs doesn’t.

“And I’m Joseph Johnson!” the other says cheerfully. Specs shakes his hand too. His guilt is hissing again.

‘They’re going to die. You know they are. Why don’t you tell them to go home now? You know what will happen to them. Selfish and greedy, you are. Keeping them here, practically standing on their graves so you can have another moment with your friends.’

It takes all of the control Specs has to not verbally tell himself to shut up.

“And I’m Romeo!” a third voice chimes in. Specs’ heart drops.

No.

No.

No no no no no.

Not here. Please not here. Not now. Specs’ heart is pounding. He really really doesn’t want to look up but he does it anyway and he’s met with those golden eyes. He wants to scream.

“Nice to meet you all,” he chokes out. The three boys sit beside him and Jojo--no, Joseph. Joseph points across the camp.

“We got a few more over there. Benjamin, Elmer, Anthony, Sean.”

Specs’ gaze follows where he’s pointing. He knows who it is before he sees them. He simply responds with a nod.

It’s even more like hell now that several of the boys are here. And one of them is Romeo. And yet, he still does his best to be their friends, as hard as that is in their circumstances. They share quiet jokes and stories from childhood. There’s an occasional laugh. Specs knows that when they eventually and inevitably end up in the trenches, at least they’ll die beside each other.

As friends.

Out loud, he calls them Albert, Joseph, Romeo, Elmer, Benjamin, Anthony, and Sean. But in his head, they’re still Albie, Jojo, Ro, El, Buttons, Race, and Spot.

One day, he slips up. He makes a mistake. He’s always very careful telling stories, making sure he doesn’t mention anything that could confuse the boys.

But they got their hands on some alcohol and Specs doesn’t usually drink but it’s so very cold and the whiskey at least gives him a bit of warmth. He’s not even close to being drunk or even a little tipsy, but he still makes the mistake.

“God, this is hell, isn’t it?” Joseph asks, leaning back and taking a swig from the bottle. Albert snatches it from him.

“If we make it outta here, I expect the rest of my life to be smooth sailing,” the ginger adds. Specs rolls his eyes as the drink is passed to him. He takes a sip.

“You guys have no idea,” he muttered softly. “Life is always shit.”

“Always the pessimist, our Specs,” Joseph teases, laughing even though it isn’t funny. Specs points this out.

“Always the comedian, our Jojo,” Specs shoots back. He hardly realizes what he’s said until he notices everyone watching him.

“Jojo?” Race questions. Specs mentally curses.

“Uh…sorry, it was…”

“No, no, I don’t mind it,” Jojo replies, giggling again. “I just didn’t expect it.” Specs gives him a relieved smile.

Spot reaches over and takes the bottle of whiskey from Specs. “Stop hogging the booze,” he grumbles. Jojo throws a pebble at him and it bounces off of Spot’s shoulder harmlessly.

“Someone a lil grumpy?” he banters. Spot sticks his tongue out childishly and Romeo, sitting across from Specs, gives him a grin. Specs returns it and despite the raging war around them, this little circle of friends finds comfort in each other.

Specs makes a promise to himself that night. He makes a promise that as much as he loves Romeo, he won’t do that to himself. Not again. He won’t have his heart broken again. So he’ll love him and he’ll do it quietly. He’ll smile, he’ll talk, he’ll laugh, but he won’t do anything more.

He hates remembering this one. With the constant noise and mud. The cold and the rain. The knowledge that he can’t love Romeo the way he wants to. The knowledge that he’s found his friends again and he’s going to watch them die again.

He’s right.

They make it to the trenches, of course. Specs always thought the French countryside was beautiful, but now? He can’t stand looking at it. They’ve ruined it.

Despite not being able to love Romeo, he still grows close to the other boy. He still allows himself to be friends with him and he learns that this time, Romeo was born in California to two very loving parents. He has two sisters, both younger, and that their names are Ophelia and Rosalind (“My parents are both actors,” he had explained. “So of course they name their kids after Shakespeare.”) and a dog whom he loves very much, who’s name is Fluffy.

Specs knows, deep down, that Romeo won’t get to see Ophelia or Rosalind or Fluffy again. He’ll die here in these trenches because it seems that whenever Specs finds him again, he’s going to die young.

His own words echo in his head. ‘A boy cursed to live forever and a boy doomed to die young.’ It’s his guilt again, the motherfucker. Specs imagines putting a piece of tape over his guilt’s mouth to shut it up.

He knew this day was coming but that didn’t mean he was any more prepared for it. He’s crouched in between Romeo and Spot, his gun held loosely in his hand. He shifts slightly. He feels uneasy. Like maybe it will happen today.

“Specs,” Romeo says. Specs turns his attention to the other boy and he can see Albert next to Romeo watching them with a smile. Romeo opens his mouth to say something else when a different shout from a different person cuts them off.

“Grenade!” Specs sees the small bomb arcing overhead before it lands at Albert’s feet and Specs barely has time to shove Spot away from them and he’s reaching for Romeo when it goes off.

The blast knocks him off his feet and he hits the ground with a grunt. He’s dizzy and disoriented and his ears are ringing.

His guilt creeps up behind him and begins whispering. ‘You could have jumped on it and contained the blast. You could have picked it up and thrown it back. You could have stopped that, you could have stopped that, you could have--’

“Shut up,” Specs groans as he slowly pushes himself up to his elbows. “Just fucking shut up.” Two other random soldiers who aren’t his friends rush over, trying to help him up. One is asking him something but his ears are still reverberating the blast and he shakes his head.

“I-I don’t…I can’t hear…”

Someone else is running to him, someone familiar, and Specs lets out a breath of relief as Spot pulls him to his feet. Slowly, his hearing starts to return and he can hear Spot shouting for a medic. He grabs Spot’s arm to steady himself and winces.

“The others--” He gasps. Spot shushes him and calls for a medic again. “Sean, the others, what happened to them?”

Spot looks at him sadly and shakes his head. “Specs, I’m sorry,” he whispers and Specs nearly collapses again if it weren’t for Spot holding him up. He wants to cry but he doesn’t. He can’t. He’s at war. He can’t cry.

He’s taken to the medic and when they find him entirely unscathed, they let him go while they check Spot. Specs sits outside the medical tent, his leg bouncing and his guilt (for fuck’s sake, can’t it leave him alone for one second?) begins to whisper again.

He ignores it.

Spot comes out of the tent a moment later and sits beside Specs silently. Spot is fine. Specs is fine.

Elmer is not.

Buttons is not.

Albert is not.

Race is not.

Romeo is not.

And Specs never imagine him being good friends with Spot. Hell, even this time around, they were hardly even friends.

But sharing the grief just brings them closer and they stick with each other until the white flag is shown and the announcements are made and there are people cheering and shouting in the streets of France as their enemies are marched away.

Specs stands at the train station, his hands shaking, and wishes Spot goodbye. This Spot is from London, not Brooklyn, and this Spot has a family waiting for him to come home. Specs smiles and says, “Have a good life, Spot. Come visit America sometime.”

And Spot answers by clapping Specs on the shoulder. “You’re one hell of a guy, Specs. Expect to see me in New York the second I’m able to.”

Then he’s gone too.

Specs returns home, if he can even call New York that. On the boat and from there on the train. There’s people crowding the station, greeting the returning soldiers with hugs and tears and passionate kisses and Specs weaves through all of them.

He isn’t left unacknowledged, of course, because as he wanders through the train station and the streets of the city, still in his rough, dirty uniform because he doesn't have any other clothes, he gets awed looks from children and handshakes or thumps on the back from fellow soldiers and teary thank-you’s from women holding handkerchiefs.

But Specs has no one waiting for him at home. He enters his apartment, the one he’s occupied for the last 45 years, and sits at his table. On the wall hangs a single photo, taken from a newspaper. A clipping of a group of ragged looking newsboys.

Specs stares at that single photo, his hands trembling still, and without another word, breaks down and finally lets himself cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! We have two more chapters after this and then I'm gonna edit the first two because they seem kinda subpart compared to these last three.
> 
> And I might write other stories in this universes. We'll see.


	5. Humanity is a Thing All It's Own

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Specs doesn’t find Romeo in 2017, but he finds memories and that’s as good as he can get.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey hey I'm finally finishing this one. It isn't like a usual chapter for this fic, but I really wanted to write it.
> 
> The song in this is called Tears on My Pillow by Little Anthony, it's an old 40s song as mentioned in the chapter and I love it.
> 
> CW: Very brief mention of homophobia, slight derealization
> 
> Stay safe loves <3

Specs doesn’t find Romeo in 2017, but he finds memories and that’s as good as he can get.

It’s officially been 100 years since he signed himself up for World War I and suffered through the trenches and muck and fire. It’s been 73 years since he last saw Romeo, and 74 since he last saw Spot.

He still lives in the same apartment and keeps the same photo on his wall. He marvels at how much technology has advanced in the last 50 years.

He still has terrible flashbacks, he still wakes up from nightmares, frozen in fear, but he thinks he’s getting better at handling them. He hasn’t been sent to any more wars. He’s been allowed to just live his life.

One day, he arrives home from work. That’s normal. He enters his apartment. Also normal. He greets the cat he adopted three years ago with a smile. That’s still normal. (He’s taken to adopting animals since the 50s, when the loneliness got too much to bear. He knows he’s going to outlive them as well, but all humans outlive cats and dogs. It won’t be too strange.) He plays soft music from the 40s, letting the sounds fill the small apartment with wistful nostalgia. Still normal.

What isnt normal, however, is the note slipped under his door. He stoops to pick it up. It’s a pamphlet for a church, one of the super Catholic ones that believe in killing gay people and not eating shrimp.

There’s also a note scribbled on it in Sharpie.

Come to church this Sunday. Cleanse yourself from the witchcraft you’re using. I want to help you. Your neighbor, Carrie.

Specs crumples the pamphlet in his hand. He knows Carrie. She’s been his neighbor for 10 years now. He can understand why she’s inviting him to--what had she said? Cleanse yourself of the witchcraft? Yes, he can understand why she said that.

He still looks 19. But she could at least keep her nose out of other people’s business. Maybe he’ll tell her that the next time he sees her.

He throws the now-crushed pamphlet on the floor and the cat, which he fondly named Jackie in memory of his Cowboy, begins batting it around the room.

He sighs and sets his stuff down on the counter. This certainly isn’t the first time he’s been accused of witchcraft and it definitely won’t be the last but that doesn’t means it doesn’t piss him the fuck off.

He didn’t choose to live forever. He didn’t ask for it.

Specs sighs and braces his hands on the counter, his head hanging down. “I’m not a witch,” he mutters. “I’m not a witch. I’m not an angel. I’m not cursed. I’m not selfish or greedy. I’m not a god. I’m just Spencer Samuels.”

Jackie looks up when he hears his owner speaks but he doesn’t find anything wrong with it because he’s just a dumb cat. The gray tabby goes back to chasing the pamphlet around the room.

Specs huffs and takes the paper from Jackie, who meows in protest. He throws it in the trash without a second thought and picks his cat up instead.

He sits on the couch, sighing. “You’re lucky, you know,” he says to the tabby, who meows curiously and tries to swat Specs’ glasses off his face. Specs holds his cat close and closes his eyes.

The fun, upbeat song that was playing fades out. Good. Specs didn’t recognize it anyways. And he doesn’t recognize this one either but as it begins to play, he starts to think maybe the whole universe is playing a prank on him.

“You don’t remember me, but I remember you.

‘Twas not so long ago, you broke my heart in two.

Tears on my pillow, pain in my heart

Caused by you, you.”

Specs lets go of Jackie and the cat runs off to who knows where. Specs wasn’t worried about that. The song is still playing and it’s dragging memories in with it, filling the room with them and Specs can see them. They swirl around the room, moving too fast to focus on them.

“If we could start anew, I wouldn't hesitate.  
I'd gladly take you back, and tempt the hand of fate.  
Tears on my pillow, pain in my heart, caused by you.”

Specs doesn’t like memories. He’s spent his whole life running from them, suffering from them, having them force their way into his head. But today, on a warm June evening in a small apartment in Manhattan in 2017, Spencer Samuels closes his eyes and remembers.  
\--  
“A memorial service?” Specs asks, examining the flyer the woman handed him. “For?”

“It’s a new memorial for World War II soldiers specifically from this part of New York!” the girl chirps. “It’s just down at Central Park! Hope to see you there.”

Specs holds the flyer with trembling hands before remembering he’s supposed to be going home. He tucks the paper in his pocket and keeps walking.

He leaves the flyer on his counter. “I’m not going,” he announces to the mostly empty apartment. Jackie rubs against his legs, purring. Specs sighs and picks up the cat. “I’m not going,” he repeats. “I don’t need to be reminded of that.”

He goes to the memorial.

He isn’t sure why he does it. He doesn’t need to be reminded of what he saw. But he feels he needs to at least pay his respects to the men he fought beside. So he stands there in solemn silence as the preacher reads some passage about being gone but never forgotten.

They read the names as well and Specs recognizes all of them.

Albert DaSilva.

Elmer Sagloo.

Benjamin Browns.

Anthony Higgins.

The last name spoken doesn’t shock him. He knew it was going to be on the list. But it still makes him flinch slightly when he hears the man say, “Romeo DeJesus.”

Specs watches silently as the small monument is unveiled. It isn’t much, just a black stone monolith with names engraved on either side. It isn’t meant to be flashy or showy, but Specs still thinks it’s beautiful.

It’s the least those boys deserve.

The preacher steps aside and Specs approaches the monolith. He looks at all the names for a second, and then glances at a man nearby.

He’s old. Very old. He sits in a wheelchair, his hair is white and thinning, and his face is filled with wrinkles.

And yet…there’s a familiar air about him. Specs can’t quite put his finger on it, but as he finds himself moving towards the man, he realizes.

It’s in the way the man looks at the names on the monument. It’s with a sad smile, tinged with wistful memories. Specs knows that look.

He is that look.

He decides that he’s going to stand quietly next to the man, familiar to him but a stranger to who he’s meant to be.

The man speaks first. “You look just like your grandfather.” His voice is raspy and brittle and he has British accent and Specs can’t help but smile as he turns.

“You knew him?” he asks. The man smiles.

“I fought with him. Him and…many of these men here.” He looks at the stone monument for another moment with the same sad look. He glances back at Specs and regards him for a moment. “What’s your name, young man?” 

“Spencer Samuels. I’m named after my grandfather.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “He’s not feeling too well, so he couldn’t be here today, but he wishes he could be.”

He tries his best to sound like the still-innocent 19 year old he’s meant to be. He tries to drop the pain and sadness from his voice. He thinks he succeeds.

The man nods. “Good. He’s a good man. He saved my life once, you know. We were once good friends.” He laughs again. “Can I ask how old you are?”

Specs clears his throat. “I turn twenty next month.” 

'Wrong,' his mind whispers. 'You turn 3,834.'

Specs ignores it. The man is nodding slowly. “That’s how old your grandfather was when I first met him. Well, I know you didn’t ask me, but I am nearly 90 years young.” He grinned like that was the funniest joke he’d ever heard and Specs humoured him with a smile. “You know we used to call him Specs?” he continues.

Specs nods, about ready to cry again.

He missed his old friend.

The old man smiles toothily. “My name is Sean. Tell Specs I say hi.”

'Spot says hi,' his mind chants. Specs mentally tells himself to shut up. Outwardly, he gives Spot another nod. “Of course I will.”

“Ready to go, Dad?” An older man (ha. Older. Why does Specs describe people as old? He’s much older than they’ll ever be) appears behind Spot’s wheelchair.

Specs knows this man. This man is unaware that his name is on the monolith in front of them because his name isn’t Joseph “Jojo” Johnson anymore. His name is Joseph Conlon and he doesn’t know who the hell Specs is.

“Yes, I’m ready, Jo. Until next time, Spencer.” Spot lets Jojo wheel his chair away and Specs looks after them for a moment.

Months later, the headline of the neighborhood newspaper (as if he hadn’t already had his fill of those) is talking about how the last World War II veteran in the area has finally died.

A photo of Spot as a young boy sits beside the headline. Specs cuts it out of the newspaper and hangs it next to the clipping of the Newsboys of Lower Manhattan. He’s kept that photo for over one hundred years. He’ll keep this one just as long.

That night, he returns to the memorial. It’s cloudy and drizzling, but the patter of rain is comforting.

It only takes him a moment to find the name he’s looking for and he pauses in front of it.

He reaches up and traces it with a single delicate finger, and thinks. How many times has he seen his friends die? How many times has he seen them revived?

How many other familiar faces were there? He wondered if there had ever been other Albert DaSilvas that maybe he’d seen in passing but had never interacted with until 1898.

He wondered if there was such a thing as an original human. Maybe whatever god or deity there was only had a certain seven billion different people and It kept reusing them. Maybe that was why he was what he was. He was meant to observe this phenomenon. He was meant to see what It was doing.

Maybe he was once a part of It. Maybe he was Its friend. Maybe he was going to live to see the end of this world and then It would retrieve him and ask, “so how did humanity fare?”

How would he answer? Specs considered it as he stood in the rain, his hand resting on the name and the question haunted him.

“How did humanity fare?”

He turned it over in his head. If the world were to end now…had humans made a good case for their existence?

Specs closed his eyes and let the memories drown him. Most of what he saw…wasn’t looking good for them.

(Them. Why did he keep referring to humans like that? As if he wasn’t one? Maybe he wasn’t.)

Images of injustices and wrongdoings. People being slaughtered, massacred by the hundreds for insignificant things like what they believed It was or what It made them look like. Bloody, awful, terrible wars that tore families apart. Sickness and disease that left people wishing they were dead.

And yet.

Specs felt that subtle insistence in his head, his mind protesting that no, it wasn’t all bad.

He remembers how they would make up stories about the world and its workings. How they spent years looking up at the skies and dreaming until finally, 60 years ago, they reached the moon. They made music and art for their own enjoyment. There was no necessary need for it, but they did. They fell in love and made friends and adopted animals and maybe they do things they don’t mean to but they’re beautiful all the same.

“How did humanity fare?”

Wars, marriages, children, disease. Making videos just to laugh with friends. Making videos, making technology. Technology used for war. Technology used for long distance love. Storytimes and painting and machine guns and little buttons found discarded in the corner of an abandoned house that someone takes home because it looks lonely. Prejudice, oppression, hatred, love, strength, determination.

“How did humanity fare?”

Specs speaks his answer out loud, telling the names on the memorial, telling the rain and the Earth and the trees and the night sky.

“Humanity’s time on this Earth cannot be described. I could have all the time in the history of everything and still not fit everything about humans in it. You ask me how humanity fared? I can’t answer that myself.

Humanity is a thing all it’s own.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really do love this chapter and it would mean the world to me if you commented on it. But either way, thanks for reading!!


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